you were destined for the glory, the honor and the fame
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
i was destined for the bullet, to be the gun with no name
“Mhm.” He was a monster of a specific kind, but at least he harbored his own rules and guidelines. Not this… Odd choice of changing opinions and yet somehow still aiming to be the martyr for it. But what the butcher doesn’t expect is how fiery her anger is, that she cares for him enough to be just as upset as Danta had been when he’d dragged it out of him.
So he watches as she goes to stand, tail whipping behind her and listening for the scrape of the chair against the wood, leaning forward to finish off his drink before his dark gaze follows her, the fire reflected in the dark glint of her raven hair. He doesn’t flinch as he slams the dagger down into the wood, but he does stand — because he had been angry too, but it had been seasons since that encounter and he’d had time to compartmentalize it at least a bit. Even if the thought still flared him up occasionally. For now, though, Thalassa harbors it all. Like a vessel of hatred tied to him with the praise that slips her lips that he isn’t even sure he’s fully deserving of, but appreciates all the same.
“Thank you, darling.” He says to ensure he gets it out, before the blade is flying through the air to knock onto the wood before he watches her figure stalk over to it, and this time he follows, listening to each and every word without further interjection until it seems as if she’s done. And honestly? She’s right, there’s nothing to interject aside from the fact that he didn’t think to draw the comparison that it seems as if she’d been forced to be a part of it. “You are right.” He agrees, letting the low hum of his voice warm the room amongst the anger, even as it erupts with a flash of lightning.
“She harbors too much morality, despite endless conversations about how it shifts over time, to believe she should be the judge. And if she does not agree with something, she cannot let it stay. She cannot just ignore it.” Despite the fact that he didn’t advertise the whole cannibal ordeal; she couldn’t live with the idea of him doing it at all. “I have avoided her attempts to make amends because I do not even know what to say to her. I.. admittedly do not know whether I would not just kill her.” Comes the other honest truth.
He reaches out, his hand warm from the fire he extinguishes so as to not ruin her clothes, aiming to ground her somewhat even if the sharp and violent glint to his smile is evident. “I know it is terrible outside, but.. What do you think of going on a quick hunt with me?” To blow off all the anger, to lean into the violence, to be the embodiment of what Dygra stood for. To let it out in actions rather than being cooped up.
And the butcher, when he hunted for his bloodlust, had a very certain kind of ferality and reverence to it. Wild and yet somehow still in utter devotion.
So he watches as she goes to stand, tail whipping behind her and listening for the scrape of the chair against the wood, leaning forward to finish off his drink before his dark gaze follows her, the fire reflected in the dark glint of her raven hair. He doesn’t flinch as he slams the dagger down into the wood, but he does stand — because he had been angry too, but it had been seasons since that encounter and he’d had time to compartmentalize it at least a bit. Even if the thought still flared him up occasionally. For now, though, Thalassa harbors it all. Like a vessel of hatred tied to him with the praise that slips her lips that he isn’t even sure he’s fully deserving of, but appreciates all the same.
“Thank you, darling.” He says to ensure he gets it out, before the blade is flying through the air to knock onto the wood before he watches her figure stalk over to it, and this time he follows, listening to each and every word without further interjection until it seems as if she’s done. And honestly? She’s right, there’s nothing to interject aside from the fact that he didn’t think to draw the comparison that it seems as if she’d been forced to be a part of it. “You are right.” He agrees, letting the low hum of his voice warm the room amongst the anger, even as it erupts with a flash of lightning.
“She harbors too much morality, despite endless conversations about how it shifts over time, to believe she should be the judge. And if she does not agree with something, she cannot let it stay. She cannot just ignore it.” Despite the fact that he didn’t advertise the whole cannibal ordeal; she couldn’t live with the idea of him doing it at all. “I have avoided her attempts to make amends because I do not even know what to say to her. I.. admittedly do not know whether I would not just kill her.” Comes the other honest truth.
He reaches out, his hand warm from the fire he extinguishes so as to not ruin her clothes, aiming to ground her somewhat even if the sharp and violent glint to his smile is evident. “I know it is terrible outside, but.. What do you think of going on a quick hunt with me?” To blow off all the anger, to lean into the violence, to be the embodiment of what Dygra stood for. To let it out in actions rather than being cooped up.
And the butcher, when he hunted for his bloodlust, had a very certain kind of ferality and reverence to it. Wild and yet somehow still in utter devotion.
Astaroth
fate's been playing the long game on us, sweetheart
